Who Knew?
by johnsarmylady
Summary: John suffers from Coulrophobia. It's a well kept secret - so well kept that even Sherlock didn't know. But someone did. The question is who? And will Sherlock be able to save John's sanity? Rated M for safety and eventual Johnlock.
1. All Hallows Eve

**Disclaimer: There are so many things I could do if I owned these guys, but I don't, so I can't!**

The flat was plain and ordinary looking, just another 1960's high rise in the east end of London. Filled with plain, functional but cheap furniture, it wasn't a home – just a place to live.

The man who sat at the kitchen table was a thin, wiry individual, with a thin sharp face and cruel eyes, and he was looking through some thirty year old psychological reports and doctor's notes. At last a cruel smile spread slowly across his face – Sherlock Holmes would regret getting involved in his business.

xXx

Cutting through Regent's Park on his way home, John smiled at the number of Frankenstein's creatures and Dracula's, the Scream masks and the gruesomely painted zombies, amused that this very American celebration had been so thoroughly taken to the hearts of British kids. His smile at their antics grew wider as he remembered that night – exactly a year ago – when his best friend and flatmate had returned from the dead. That had been the first time he'd really noticed how many children there were out and about on Hallowe'en, and for him it was the day Hallowe'en became special.

Dodging a large crowd of teenage witches, bad fairies and devil dolls, he diverted across the grass to take a more remote path, walking around a large dogwood bush. A rustling sound caught his attention, and he slowed down, turning as he did so. Unfortunately for Dr Watson, that was the last thing he was to remember for a few hours.

xXx

Sherlock came out of his mind palace and looked around. The flat was dark, and the fire had almost burned out.

"John?"

There was nothing but the echo of his own voice. Kicking his legs off the couch he stalked through the kitchen and then back out and along to their bedroom.

Staring into the darkness of the empty room he felt unusually unsettled, as if the very air was vibrating with expectancy. John was, underneath the tough exterior, a sentimental man. Only this morning, as he headed out to cover a shift for a friend at UCH, he had promised to be back to cook something special tonight to celebrate. It hadn't been until much later that realisation dawned about what it was that John wanted to celebrate – a year since he, Sherlock, had come home, a year since they had admitted there was more than just friendship between them.

Glancing at his watch he saw it was nearly nine o'clock. John should have been home three hours ago. He would never have stayed late, not tonight. Tonight he had promised…

xXx

Dizzy still from the effects of the chloroform, John barely registered the cold damp of the ground, nor the chill stone that he was anchored to with a thick chain around his chest. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool.

"Drink, Dr Watson?"

The voice was somewhere behind his left shoulder but when he tried to turn his head all he felt was the cold grey marble of a Gothic Angel's skirts.

"What's going on?" John's voice was hoarse, rasping.

"I asked you if you wanted a drink!" this time the voice was closer, as out of the darkness the darker shape of a man loomed up, and a hand reached forward, pinching his nostrils shut and forcing his mouth open.

Despite the restraints and his sluggish reactions John tried to pull away, but the other man was stronger, pushing the top of a water bottle into his mouth, tipping it so that he was forced to swallow.

John gagged, trying not to ingest the bitter liquid, but he was severely disadvantaged, chained as he was to the stone monument, and his assailant managed to get almost half of the bottle's contents down John's throat before he started to choke.

"Soon, Dr Watson." The voice whispered harshly into the captive's ear. "Soon your boyfriend's meddling will drive you mad." And with a high pitched giggle he moved back into the darkness

xXx

Enquiries made to the hospital confirmed that yes, Doctor Watson left at five o'clock sharp. They had been grateful for his help, and happy for him to leave on time. The A&E duty staff expressed concern that John seemed to have disappeared, and promised to get in touch if they heard from him.

Next Sherlock tried Lestrade, but the Detective Inspector was off duty and was out 'trick or treating' with his children and a clutch of their ghoulish friends. He recommended contacting Dimmock as he would know if John had either been asked to help out or – God forbid – had been involved in some kind of incident. With a cheery admonition not to worry, that John was a grown man and more than capable of looking after himself, he ended the call, leaving Sherlock with the echoes of children's shrieks overlaying the well intentioned advice.

Frustration and fear boiled up inside of him – a fear greater than he had felt since Moriarty and his time spent away from home and from John – and almost in desperation he pulled on his coat and scarf, intending to walk the route he knew John would have taken home, but as he pulled on his gloves his phone vibrated chirping out a text alert.

Hope and fear warred inside the consulting detective as he opened the message and stared at the picture, his worst fears recognised. Another text message followed almost immediately.

'_Find me'_

xXx

By the time the photograph had been taken, the effects of the psilocybin were evident, and his captor would have known how the horrified expression on John's face would affect the consulting detective.

Kneeling in front of the terrified man, and with a laugh that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hammer horror film, he switched on a flashlight, holding it under his chin to illuminate his face. John's screams echoed and bounced off the surrounding marble and granite monuments, as the face of the clown moved closer, smiling at his fear.

"We're coming for you, John Watson. We're coming for you soon!"

With a flick of a switch the gravestones surrounding them took on a life of their own, lights flickered on and off, each one revealing a different figure or large painted face – and each one a clown.

Walking away from the chained man he smiled in satisfaction as the screams grew louder and more intense. After this, Doctor Watson's mind would never be the same.

**A/N: **

**1) References to last Hallowe'en can be found in my story Long Leggity Beastie, although it's not necessary to read that to understand this.**

**2) Coulrophobia is the fear of Clowns**

**3) Psilocybin is found in magic mushrooms and can be either eaten or extracted and made into a drink. It is bitter, and it seems our bad guy just added it to water.**


	2. The Screaming Dead

Frantically Sherlock downloaded the photograph to his laptop, before making a call to Detective Inspector Dimmock. As he waited for the call to be answered he blew the photograph up, peering at the background, forcing himself to look away from the terror in his friend's eyes.

"How can I help you Mr Holmes?" Dimmock still had difficulty calling Sherlock by his first name, and hadn't quite got over his fear of being belittled by the arrogant genius.

"John has been taken."

"Um, what do you mean, taken?"

"Taken Dimmock! Someone has him. He's been…." Sherlock's voice trailed off as he stared closer at the grainy, shadowed background. Then, calmly he added "Someone has him chained like an animal in a graveyard. I don't believe you have ever known me ask for anything for the assistance I've given Scotland Yard over the years – but tonight I need your help to get John back."

xXx

Being careful to ensure he wasn't seen, John's kidnapper slipped out of the cemetery gates, snapping a new padlock onto the gate to replace the one he had removed earlier.

A satisfied smile spread across his face, as John's frantic screams could still be clearly heard, even from this distance, and in the distance the eerie dancing lights hinted at terrifying happenings among the graves – he was certain that even the bravest of souls wouldn't want to investigate.

Snug in his pocket sat John's phone, the GPS tracker disabled. On it he had recorded an audio file, and now, with a quick flick of his thumb he sent it to Sherlock, then turned the phone off and tossed it over the railings to lay broken in the wild grass and undergrowth.

xXx

They were surrounding him. Clowns of all sizes, waiting…watching…swaying around him. And over the sound of his own terrified screams he could still here the voice of the clown '_We're coming for you, John Watson. We're coming for you soon!_' In frantic desperation John struggled against the chains that held him, but whichever way he pulled moved him closer to a grinning clown, and in each flash of light an illuminated jester seemed to move forward, inch closer.

The heels of his shoes were wearing grooves in the soft, damp, leaf-covered ground as he scrabbled and pushed, trying to distance himself from the flashing, glowing figures, and his throat was raw from screaming as fear tightened its grip on his mind. He hardly noticed the pain in his arms chest and stomach as the chains bit and bruised his flesh through his thin shirt.

A loud rustling through the dead leaves and overhanging trees to his right silenced John's screams as he strained to hear what, or who, was moving through the undergrowth towards him. His lungs struggled to take in air as the invisible creature crept closer, paused, and then shot away across the cemetery, knocking into a giant clown head as it went, sending it careening towards the frightened man and tearing a piercing scream from his lips.

xXx

Dimmock hadn't wasted any time – he put out an urgent all station bulletin; alerting all officers to the possibility of John Watson being held captive in a cemetery on their patch, and requesting that they send a patrol car out to check it out.

He waited in his office, tensing up every time his telephone rung only to feel a combination of relief and trepidation at each negative result, Sherlock was rarely wrong and so the longer they were taking to find the doctor the more likely it was that the young consulting detective would arrive at Scotland Yard demanding information.

As he took his fifth call advising him that no one was tied up in the local cemetery, he heard the undisguised murmurs of disapproval from his team, and the steady yet fast footsteps that could only be one person. Cutting the call he rose to his feet and walked to his office door.

"Mr Holmes…."

"You need to hear this." Sherlock snapped, pushing past him and walking into the room, rubbing at a bruise on his temple.

"Mr Holmes, are you hurt?" Dimmock frowned, staring at him.

"Bloody driver nearly careered off the road when I received this message and played it in the back of the cab." The consulting detective hit the play button on his phone and John's screams echoed around the office. From the outer office came the sound of a cup smashing as it hit the edge of a desk on its way to the floor.

"Christ! No wonder the driver nearly lost it!" waving away the curious crowd now gathered at the door, the young Detective Inspector moved around to sit at his desk. "When was that sent?"

"Ten minutes ago, but that's not why I'm here. Have you found the graveyard yet?" Sherlock could see by his expression that they hadn't. In frustration he slammed the palms of his hands down on the desk. "How many cemeteries are there? Surely it can't take that long…"

"There are approximately fifty two in Greater London." A voice spoke up from the doorway.

"And who are you?" the consulting detective snarled at the newcomer, drawing himself up to his full height and staring coldly down at the red headed officer.

"Detective Constable Greenaway..."

"It's okay Greenaway..." Dimmock started to say but a chopping motion of Sherlock's hand silenced him.

"Go on…"

"Well," Greenaway entered, closing the door behind him. "There are around fifty two cemeteries, and most would be difficult to hide a person in, but in the big ones, the Victorian and pre-Victorian ones it wouldn't be so hard."

"And they are?" Sherlock ignored Dimmock, who had picked up the ringing telephone, and continued to stare at the Detective Constable.

"Well, the obvious one is…"

"Highgate!" Dimmock said triumphantly. "The desk sergeant at Highgate nick says they've received reports of lights and screaming in the cemetery, but they thought it was kids messing around. They are sending a car straight over." He grabbed his coat and keys. "Come on you two, we'll meet them at the entrance gate."

xXx

Sherlock fairly flung himself from the car before it had fully stopped and loomed over the officers as they removed the padlock with a set of bolt croppers.

The screaming had ceased, but in its place was a pitiful wailing, incoherent and heartbreakingly sad and scared.

As the metal of the padlock finally gave out, Sherlock bolted through the gates, following the heartrending cries and flashing lights, with Dimmock and Greenaway hot on his heels. They rounded a towering monument of a praying angel, wings outstretched and kneeling on a pedestal, into a circle of flashing lights and clowns.

And chained to the monument, his head banging rhythmically against the marble angel's skirts and his eyes wide with fear, John Watson sat jibbering and slobbering, seeing nothing but the images inside his head.


	3. Truth Will Out

**Flashbacks in **_italics_

**xXx**

The door opened softly, and footsteps crossed the room.

"Why clowns Mycroft? What's the significance?" Sherlock's eyes never left the still figure lying in the bed.

His brother stepped up behind him.

"Do you know what Coulrophobia is?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and his head whipped round to stare at his older sibling, looking hard at the carefully blank expression as if trying to read the answer there. After a moment he looked away again.

"Phobia, a fear. So let me make an educated assumption and say fear of clowns? Since when?"

"We think from childhood…"

"Think?" The young man rounded on his brother. "Where is your famed intelligence corps when it's needed? Why are we only hearing about this now? After all, someone knows…"

"We never had cause to look earlier than his army records – now we find the medical records covering the first eighteen years of his life are missing." Mycroft stepped up to stand beside the hospital bed, leaning on his umbrella. "We do however know who his family doctor was, and I have sent a car to collect him and bring him here."

"Retired?"

"Yes, but he says he remembers John well – called it an unusual case."

Both brothers looked towards the unconscious man.

"There is nothing 'usual'," Sherlock said softly, "about John Watson."

xXx

There were times when Detective Inspector Dimmock wished he had chosen any career but the one he currently pursued. Although he had had very limited contact with the consulting detective and his blogger, and despite the fact that Sherlock always made him feel like a complete idiot at times, he wished to God that this had happened to anyone – anyone at all – except Dr Watson.

Dr Watson used a light touch of humour to counter the scathing comments, and Dimmock had been shocked to see him reduced to a howling, gibbering wreck.

Since daybreak he had supervised the collection of evidence, making it known that he would not tolerate any comments about either the victim or his flatmate. Anderson was unimpressed, but the Detective Inspector made it plain he was there to do his job as senior forensics officer, and if he wished to remain as the senior officer he would do that and nothing more.

Without the back up of his unofficial girlfriend Anderson knew when he was beaten, and turned his attention to the crime scene.

xXx

"_Here he comes, little Johnny, hear his bones go clack clack clack!"_

_John cowered under the work bench, wishing he hadn't chosen his Dad's garden shed to hide in. It was dark, and smelled odd, and he was sure there were 'things' hiding in here with him._

_He heard the footsteps approaching, swishing through the long grass outside the wooden building, closer and closer until, instead of leaping in to grab him they had slammed the door shut and slid the bolts across, keeping him prisoner._

_John whimpered as the taunting started up again._

"_He's coming for you little Johnny, he's coming for you soon! Can you hear his bones little Johnny? Hear his bones go clack clack clack!"_

_Cowering deeper into the shadows, the terrified little boy bit his lip until it bled, and as the clicking, clacking sound of the 'bones' grew closer he felt a wet warmth between his legs as his bladder emptied in response to his fear._

_A sudden bang sounded against the wooden wall, and a light shone through the open window illuminating the hideous face, garishly made up and grinning evilly, and the long, thin legs whose bones were clicking and clacking, louder and louder, getting closer and closer._

_Covering his eyes, John drew in a deep breath and screamed…_

xXx

Lying in bed in his flat and watching the late night horror film, Michael Stevens felt quite pleased with the result of his endeavours. In one fell swoop he had punished the consulting detective that had him imprisoned for beating his employer to death.

Despite the extenuating circumstances – the man had been a bully and a thoughtless employer, giving no thought to the health and safety of his staff, paying minimum wage and expecting maximum output – he had been given a fifteen year sentence although with good behaviour he was able to get parole after just five years, but his life was in ruins, his wife had left him and taken his daughter with her when she moved in with her new man.

Michael had dreamed about getting even with the man that had ruined his life, so when the means to get back at him through his partner presented itself, he felt God had handed him a gift beyond price.

Now he smiled to himself as he watched Pennywise the dancing clown creep across his television screen, marvelling at how a childhood friendship could have proved so fortuitous.

xXx

Dr Barlow stood at the foot of the bed, a small sad smile on his face.

"He's hardly changed." He said softly. "Why is he being sedated?"

"He was beyond reasoning when my brother found him." Mycroft explained, "Incoherent, banging his head and unresponsive when spoken to. We think he's been given something, a hallucinogen; that would explain his reaction…." His voice trailed off as he saw the doctor's eyes widened.

"Yet your assistant told me he was found in the dark, surrounded by clowns and flashing lights?"

"He was. Is that significant?" Sherlock roused himself from his observation of his friend to join in the discussion.

"His coulrophobia stems from a prank his sister and her friends played on him when he was ten. The poor boy was terrified. He suffered nightmares and nocturnal enuresis for quite a while afterwards."

"Was nothing done for him?" Anger darkened Sherlock's voice.

"He was given psychotherapy and support counselling. By the time he turned thirteen he had it pretty much under control – until the only trigger was the combination of clowns, darkness and flashing lights." Barlow shook his head. "To have given him a hallucinogen…."

"And all of this would have been known to whom?"

"It's all in his records Mr Holmes, and of course his family would have known. Alas Harriet is his only family now, his parents passed away while he was serving in Afghanistan."

Sherlock's long pale fingers gripped the rail at the side of the bed, his face creasing into an ugly snarl.

"If I find that witch has told someone about John's phobia…" he ground out.

"No, I can assure you Harriet wouldn't do that. You see," he added seeing the questioning looks on both faces, "Harriet started drinking shortly after this happened. She blamed herself for John's problems, and tried to drown them in a bottle. Of the two of them she came off worse."

Mycroft nodded. "Because John learned to control his fears."

"Maybe," Barlow said thoughtfully. "The question you should be asking is who took John's records?"

"My people have a list of everyone who is working or has worked at the surgery Dr Watson registered with."

"I want a copy of that list Mycroft." Sherlock demanded

"It's on its way."

xXx

The staff turn-over at North Gower surgery was very limited, making Anthea's job so very much easier.

The doctors were all well respected general practitioners, the practice nurses equally so, so she started with the non-medical staff.

Generally the practice ran with four receptionist admin staff, overseen by a practice manager. It was with the former post that the anomaly appeared, with a receptionist supplied by a local temp agency.

A check of her employment records showed that she had been booked by the surgery to cover a member of staff who was on long term sick leave. She left after just a week and a half, with no word to the practice manager.

Making a quick call to the agency it transpired that the woman returned with a tale of family woes, asked for such pay as was owed to her, and hadn't been seen since.

Anthea smiled and picked up her blackberry.

xXx

In John's hospital room a soft chirrup of a text message arriving joined with the rhythmic beeping of the monitors, and Mycroft looked down at the phone in his hand.

Without a word he held it out to his brother, who frowned as he read the message, and then stared sightlessly into the air before tossing the mobile back to his brother.

"I know that name."


	4. A Dish Best Served Cold

Mycroft hadn't moved so fast in a very long time, but he was out of his chair and standing in front of the door, doing his best to restrain his brother.

"Where are you going Sherlock? You can't just storm out of here without a word to say where you're going."

"Oh you'll find out soon enough." Sherlock snarled, wrenching out of the older man's grip and stepping swiftly round him. "If Anthea – or whatever she's calling herself these days – doesn't already know where to find this woman she soon will. You just have to hope your people get there before I do."

And Sherlock was gone before Mycroft could say another word. Somewhat nonplussed, he half turned to look at the sedated man, and the elderly doctor sitting in a chair at his bedside.

"Go after him Mr Holmes; I'll stay with young John." Dr Barlow tipped his head towards the door. "Go on. John and I are old friends; at least he won't wake up surrounded by strangers while you two are gone."

With a curt nod Mycroft followed his brother, knowing that the younger man would be long gone by the time he reached the hospital entrance.

xXx

Jennifer Stevens was feeling pleased with herself. The money her brother had promised her had been posted through her letter box sometime during the night, and now she was the proud owner of the gorgeous silk floral Alexander McQueen dress with matching shoes and handbag, that she had coveted ever since she had first seen it in the shop.

Now, as she sat in the coffee shop with a frothy latte and a slice of white chocolate fridge cake, she thought about the notes she had stolen from the medical practice.

It had been years since she thought about Harry Watson and her little brother – Harry had been her best friend, right up until that awful night when they had persuaded little Johnny to play hide and seek.

For a long time after that night the two girls would sit in Harry's bedroom and listen to John's cries, and after a while Harry started stealing booze from her Dad's Christmas stash, so that they could get drunk and pretend it wasn't happening. Mr and Mrs Watson were too busy with John to notice that neither girl was steady on their feet, and the smell of peppermints and parma violets was enough to overwhelm the most sensitive nose, covering the sour smell of whatever spirit they had managed to appropriate.

After a while, she had grown to hate the taste of alcohol – in this respect Harry Watson had done her a favour – but Harry had gone from bad to worse, turning up at school hung over, trying to sit her exams while still half cut, until she was thrown ignominiously out of school.

The rot had set in to their friendship that night, and over time the girls had drifted apart. Jennifer had thought no more about little Johnny Watson, until he stood in the dock and gave evidence in the case against her brother.

John hadn't recognised her, but he was unmistakable – that same open, trusting expression, albeit tempered by years spent in the army, and the same clear, honest eyes. Between him and the detective, Sherlock Holmes, they ensured her Michael was found guilty, so when she saw Johnny's records in the filing system at the temp job she had taken she couldn't believe her eyes.

Michael had grasped the opportunity to destroy both men, and if Jennifer had had any qualms about hurting John again they were overridden by the promise of a large amount of cash in return for services rendered.

A shadow passing over her table broke into her thoughts, and she looked up into the angry, storm grey eyes of the consulting detective.

xXx

It was a much shaken Jennifer Stevens that finally returned home, but as she moved to put her key in the lock a voice behind her nearly stopped her heart.

"Miss Stevens, taking an educated guess and watching the way your hand shakes, I would say your interview with my brother was not exactly felicitous." Mycroft reached around her, careful not to make bodily contact as he plucked the key from her frozen fingers and opened the door, standing back and gesturing for her to enter.

He followed her in, and behind him came Detective Inspector Dimmock and Detective Constable Greenaway. The two police officers merely observers to the British Government at work.

"Now Miss Stevens," the older man smiled coldly as the frightened woman lowered herself, shivering, into an armchair, "I'm sure my brother's threats and promises have made you worried for the safety of your own brother – let me assure you that you are right to worry. Now, let me give you some advice."

Fastidiously dusting off the armchair opposite the wide eyes woman, Mycroft sat down and crossed one elegantly clad leg over the other.

"I would caution you not to hope that he was just trying to frighten you – Sherlock's partner is lying in a hospital bed, severely traumatised, so if you value your brother you will tell me where to find him."

Jennifer seemed to shrink into the chair, her eyes wide and her teeth worrying at her lower lip. Her joy at being able to purchase her dream dress had crumbled and left a nasty taste in her mouth, and now this man had burst the last bubble of her hope that the consulting detective had just been bluffing.

She stared for a moment longer then cracked, her voice whispering shakily as she gave the address of her brother's flat.

Mycroft looked at Dimmock, who nodded smartly.

"We're on our way." He said, leading the way back out, Greenaway following in his wake.

"Will they stop him hurting Michael?" Jennifer asked, watching the departing police officers.

"Your brother is, at this moment, of little or no concern to me Miss Stevens." He stood and straightened his suit jacket. "You will come with me. I promised the Detective Inspector that I would deliver you to his colleagues at Scotland Yard for questioning – and possibly for charges to be made."

If Jennifer had thought up until then that her day was turning sour, she suddenly saw how it was about to get a good deal worse.

xXx

Dimmock and Greenaway raced up the stairwell, trying not to gag on the eye-stinging stench of urine and cannabis and cursing the broken lift.

With relief they moved into the third floor lobby, looking around for flat number fifteen. The door was closed, from inside they could hear ominous thuds, and one neighbour had come out of her flat to peer worriedly in the direction of the noise.

Dimmock flashed his warrant card.

"We'll take care of this Madam; just go back indoors in case the tenant gets a bit rowdy."

"Oh." Rather taken aback, the neighbour moved back towards her own flat.

The two officers glanced at each other.

"Come on." Dimmock sighed, walking across and knocking on the door of the flat.

A loud thud, louder than the previous ones, sounded within.

He knocked again, harder this time, and prepared to try to force entry, backing up slightly and weighing up whether or not he would be able to kick the lock in.

After one final thud from inside the flat, the sound of the chain being removed from the door preceded the unlocking and opening of the door.

The only indication that Sherlock had been engaged in anything other than quiet discussion with the ex-convict was the cold look on his face and the tell-tale bruising on his hand as he pulled on his gloves.

"You may want to call an ambulance Detective Inspector." His voice was calm, devoid of emotion. "He seems to have fallen and hurt himself, but he will live – unfortunately."

With a polite nod to the two men the consulting detective walked away, leaving the door open, and the police officers staring at the pulped and bloodied mass of humanity that was known as Michael Stevens.


	5. Meditations And Promises

A soft tapping at the door of 221B pulled Sherlock away from his current study of oils in lip balms, and he glanced across at John as he walked through the living room to answer it.

John sat, as he had every day since his return from hospital a week ago, staring into space, his mind effectively shut down by the drugs the hospital had prescribed.

Shaking his head at the shell of his friend, he carried on to the door and opened it a crack. Dimmock stood on the stairs looking up at him.

"No." Sherlock said quietly but firmly.

Dimmock held his hands up, placating.

"No Mr Holmes, I'm not here for Doctor Watson's statement – I've only come to see how he is."

"Why?" Stepping back to let the man in, Sherlock closed the door and stood looking down at him. "Why would you do this?"

Looking somewhat confused by the question Dimmock frowned. Sherlock shook his head, bemused.

"You'd better come through. He may recognise you, he may not." A brief smile flickered, and was gone in an instant "He didn't recognise my brother or Lestrade."

Walking forward at Sherlock's invitation into the living room he looked down at the doctor, the blood draining from his face as he took in the grey complexion and dull eyes.

"Christ!" he said under his breath, but the consulting detective caught the word and shook his head with a grimace.

"I don't think John's prayers were heard."

"No, no you're right." Dimmock lowered himself into Sherlock's chair and leaned forward, putting himself within John's line of vision. "Doctor Watson? How are you doing?"

John didn't react; it was as if he had been turned to stone, and only the peaceful rise and fall of his chest showed this to be an illusion.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" The Scotland Yard officer looked up at Sherlock.

"Just make sure that Stevens is put away for a very long time." It was a snarl, softly executed and more threatening than any shout of rage. "Or let me spend a few hours alone with him….."

There was a pause, and a lightening of Dimmock's expression.

"Too late Mr Holmes, when we found him there seems to have been a falling out of criminals. It would appear he was badly beaten up by one of his so-called friends; it will be a long time before he gets out of hospital and faces justice."

With a last pitying look at John, the Detective Inspector rose to leave, offering his hand to Sherlock.

"I'm sure Greg…. Detective Inspector Lestrade has made this offer, but if there is anything at all we can do, please don't hesitate to call."

The offer, simply but sincerely made, left Sherlock speechless, and he watched wordlessly as Dimmock let himself out of the flat.

Looking down at his partner he marvelled at the way the man inspired this level of friendship and the need to care, even in people that didn't really know him well.

In one smooth movement he sunk to his knees beside John, long slender fingers stroking softly down the older man's cheek, scratching gently through the week's growth of stubble.

"Come back to me John," he whispered. "I can't do this alone anymore."

xXx

As night closed in Sherlock led an unresisting John through his nightly ablutions, then took him to their bedroom, pushing him gently to sit on the edge of the bed before sitting next to him and giving him the last of his daily medication.

Childlike the doctor put the tablets into his mouth, swallowing them down with the glass of water that the other man held to his lips. As Sherlock leaned away to put the empty glass on the bedside table a hand reached out and touched his arm. He paused and looked back at John.

"Thank you."

It was the merest whisper, and it saddened Sherlock that he couldn't take any comfort in those two words. Every night since John had come home it was the same – as if, in the shelter of their shared room he could allow his voice to be heard once more the doctor would thank him, and then allow himself to be put to bed.

Pulling the smaller man close he wrapped his arms around him, stroking the fair head that rested against his chest, listening for the subtle change in breathing that indicated that John had slipped into the arms of Morpheus. Then he considered the way forward…..

xXx

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Mycroft kept his voice low as he handed a rectangular white box to his brother, watching as the younger man locked it away in his desk drawer.

"I'm not doing anything at the moment." Sherlock replied equally quietly. "This is not so much a plan as an idea – one that may go nowhere…"

"Dr Barlow has agreed that he will come if you need him."

Sherlock nodded.

"I hope it won't come to that," he paused, frowned, and looked at the other man. "Thank you."

Mycroft looked him over with a brief flick of his eyes and then turned, leaving as quietly as he had arrived.

In the silence of the flat Sherlock drew a deep breath and then walked into the kitchen, took John's medication out of the cupboard, and donning a pair of latex gloves he tipped the pills out onto the kitchen table.

His midnight meditation lead him to the conclusion that John was essentially strong, and that keeping him docile on Benzodiazepines would only prolong the issues while adding the risk of a greater problem – that of addiction.

With a new scalpel from John's medical kit Sherlock set about cutting up a number of the pills, some into halves, some quartered, until he had the correct reduced doses. His chemist's brain and his first-hand knowledge of addiction and withdrawal made him extra careful about weaning the doctor off his medication, and starting today each of his three doses would be reduced by twelve and a half percent. In two days that would decrease again, and again two days after that, until he was clean and whole again.

There would be no question of John being left on his own; Sherlock had already told Lestrade that he would take no cases that required him to leave the flat until John had recovered. And if the doctor showed signs of being unable to cope then the dosage could be increased once more – but he was sure it wouldn't happen, because in the darkness of their room last night Sherlock had promised he would be there for him, to help him no matter how hard it was.

And so with grim determination he set out each day's medication, bagged the pills into individual days' doses, then walked quietly into the bedroom – now was the time to begin the reclamation of John Watson.


	6. Facing The Demons

**Here we have it - the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed or favourite - I really appreciate all of you - if not for you I wouldn't be writing :D**

Sherlock staggered backwards, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose, his eyes never leaving John's wide, wild stare.

The instant there was enough space between them John swung a dining chair up, holding it like a shield, a physical barrier between them.

"Keep back!" there was the harsh edge of hysteria in his voice, broken by sobs, shaking with fear. "Leave me alone, please leave me alone."

With his back against the living room door, Sherlock allowed himself to slide down until he was crouched with one arm resting on his thighs, the other hand wiping the last of the blood from his nose. Keeping his breathing even and his expression unthreatening, he looked John in the eye and spoke softly.

"John, do you know who I am?"

"You….you…" The blond doctor forced the words out, frowning as he fought an internal war over reality and what he believed was truth.

And Sherlock read every battle in that war in John's face, and in the way the chair was allowed to slowly drop as he struggled separate the physical from the imaginary.

Leaning against the chair John slowly sunk to his knees, a high pitched keening cry emanating from his lips. Biting down his need to rush to the others' aid, Sherlock moved towards him, keeping low and taking care not to make any sudden moves, until he was close enough to pull John into his arms.

Wrapping himself around his shaking lover, Sherlock stroked his hand through the dishevelled blond hair, guiding John's head down onto his shoulder as he whispered soothingly into his ear.

"You're safe now John, there's nothing in here for you to worry about."

He was becoming well versed in dealing with the scenario that had just been enacted in the living room of 221B. In the three days since Sherlock's decision to wean him off the medication John had by turns been docile, mutely shaking with fear, tearful or screaming in terror, but the consulting detective never once regretted his actions.

The windows rattled suddenly, as the November winds picked up and a sudden squall of icy rain lashed against the front of the building and John flinched, whimpering and trying to bury himself in the shelter of the younger man's arms.

xXx

The blond doctor was sitting at the other end of the couch, his feet pulled up on the seat, his hands clasped around his shins. Blue eyes stared out of his pale face, his cheeks sunken where, despite Sherlock's best efforts to feed him, he had lost a considerable amount of weight, and they stared directly at the curly haired detective….only he wasn't particularly curly haired right at this moment, and John was mulling this over in his mind.

"You've gelled your hair." He said suddenly

The younger man smiled, his expression giving nothing away. The previous night as they were settling down to sleep John, seven days into his drug reduction programme, had reached up to touch Sherlocks face and encountered dishevelled curls. As his fingers became entangled he was suddenly catapulted into his worst nightmare, trapped in the embrace of his personal demons.

"My curls upset you." Sherlock had no intention of disturbing the fragile balance of John's mind, and so was economical with the amount of truth in his words. "I thought it best."

"And your face is bruised."

"Maybe I deserved the slap you gave me – it was ages ago, I really don't recall."

"Liar."

"Do you remember?"

This wasn't the first time those words had been spoken, but instead of the sad head-shake response of previous days John started to tremble.

Reaching out, long pale fingers grasped and held John's clasped hands, giving a gentle encouraging squeeze.

Twisting his hands to lace their fingers together John swallowed hard, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes welling up as he gathered his courage.

"You were… he was…..I thought you were the cl..cl..cl.." John trembled harder as he tried to force himself to say the word.

"It's okay John, take your time." Sherlock stole a glance at his watch, noting that John's next dose of medication was almost due.

There was a tug on Sherlocks hands, and he allowed himself to be pulled across to John's side of the couch, unresisting as the smaller man wrapped arms and legs around him and buried his face in the pale curve of his neck.

"I thought you were the clown."

"I know" Pressing a soft kiss on John's hair

"And last night…" John lifted his head and looked at the slicked down dark hair. "I'm sorry, it was stupid."

"No, it was just another bridge to cross." Sherlock pulled back slightly. "I need to get your pills."

"I….I don't want them."

The younger man watched him carefully.

"I just want…I want my brain to be less fuzzy, I want to be normal again!" His voice rising on a note of near hysteria, John held on tightly to the man in his arms. "I just want this to stop; I hate this….this _dependence_!" He spat the last word as if it would poison him to keep it too long on his tongue.

xXx

Propped up on one elbow, Sherlock watched as the grey morning light crept over the windowsill and kissed the sleeping figure lying next to him. He drank in the sight of the other man lying curled towards him, in repose looking younger and more rested than he had in a long time, a benefit of his second full night of sleep.

Lifting his hand, he let it hover over John's shoulder, unwilling to wake him, wanting so badly to touch him.

"Do it." The softly spoken words were accompanied by a sleepy smile. "I won't break."

"There was a time I thought you might." Sherlock replied, letting his hand sweep gently over the warm skin, feeling his heartbeat increase and his body leaping to the faster rhythm.

Blue eyes fluttered open, and hands reached for slim pale hips.

"Let me show you how unlikely I am to break now."

Their kiss, initially soft and almost chaste, took on a life of its own, as tongue battled tongue for supremacy, and hands grasped and pulled and stroked, the friction driving heightened senses and stoking the flames left dormant by conflict, until both men were consumed in its inferno.

"'Lock" It was a sigh, a homecoming, and as John's hot breath kissed Sherlock's ear the younger man finally let flow the tears he had been holding back since Hallowe'en.

"John."

John moved his hands up to kiss and lick away the warm, salty liquid from his lover's cheeks, nibbling his way back to the full pink lower lip, sucking it into his mouth and laving his tongue across the sensitive skin.

As a jolt of sensual pleasure shot through his slender frame Sherlock's arms tightened around the smaller man, his hips thrusting, rutting against him.

Moving in unison, each man drove the other to a second shuddering, sobbing orgasm then lay, entwined in their messy nest, revelling in their return to normality, their return to each other.

The loud rumbling of John's stomach broke through the post orgasm haze, and interrupted their lazy cuddling, bringing a wide grin to Sherlock's face. It had been two days since John had taken the last of his medication, and now for the first time in more than three weeks John's body was recognising its need for food.

"Sorry." John chuckled.

"Don't be – I've discovered that I was wrong all this time, that the violin isn't the most beautiful sound after the sound of your voice; that hungry growling is!"

xXx

A short while later, showered and dressed, the two men sat in front of the newly banked fire, Sherlock watching as John munched his way through his fourth slice of toast.

"Better?"

John gave the question serious consideration before replying.

"Nearly. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," now it was Sherlock's turn to look serious. "I have something I want you to do, but it needs your absolute trust."

"You need to ask?"

"For this? Yes, yes I think I do."

"That sounds ominous." John frowned. "Should I be worried?"

"I'm hoping that after this you'll never be worried again." Leaning towards the fire Sherlock prodded at it with the poker, concentrating on making the fire burn brighter, hotter.

Once he was satisfied he turned and took the empty plate from John's hands, and pulled him gently to his knees on the hearth rug, then he rose and retrieved the white box that Mycroft had given him.

"My brother visited your sister." He said, kneeling behind John, his knees bracketing the smaller man's hips. "Did you know she still had the clown?"

A shudder ran through John's compact frame.

"I think she kept it to remind herself of what she'd done. I told her not to – I never blamed her you know, she was a kid, we both were."

"My John." Sherlock placed a soft kiss on the exposed area of John's neck in front of him, nuzzling gently behind his ear. Reaching around so that the box was held in front of the ex-soldier, he addressed the reason they were sitting in front of the fire.

"In here is the clown, John. I think if you are to finally face this demon and put it to rest then you must destroy it. What do you think?"

He felt the trembling in John's body steadily increasing, and tightened his thighs against the other man.

"I'll be here, I'll stay with you, but you and only you can do this John – trust me?"

John nodded.

"Open the box."

Shaking uncontrollably John fumbled opening the box, managing it on the second attempt, and a whimper forced its way from between compressed lips as his eyes took in the thing that for years his nightmares were made of.

"Okay John?" Keeping his voice soft, he anchored his lover in the here and now, pressed as they were chest to back he remained steadfast.

A sharp nod was the only answer, that and the increasingly shallow breaths that the other man took, threatening to hyperventilate.

"Breathe John, you're safe, I'm here."

Again a nod, and then a shaking hand reached into the box, drawing out the tattered, mud spattered wooden painted clown.

Swallowing hard and trying to ignore the clattering of its legs as his shaking hands freed them from their confines, John took a deep breath and cast the hated marionette into the fire, grabbing the poker and pushing it deep into the flames.

Letting the box fall away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's chest and held him as the last of his nightmare burned away, and the pair sat unmoving, silent, staring into the flames.

Neither knew how long they stayed there, but the sharp chirrup of a text drew Sherlock's hand to his pocket, and he retrieved his phone and opened the message. He smiled, and held the screen up for John to see.

'_Stevens had an accident in prison while awaiting trial. He died on the way to hospital. – MH'_

And all was right in 221B Baker Street.


End file.
